The Master looked round sharply.
“I do not think,” he said bitterly, “that she has either the wit or the spirit; and she does not know.”
“It is you who do not know,” smiled the Viscount. “She spies on you, listens at doors.”
Sir John flared into violence.
“She would not dare—I cannot believe, and if I did—”
“Ask her,” interrupted his father. “She has a silly habit of speaking the truth—the result I believe of her bad education. She is a marvelously ignorant woman.”
“I can note her ill qualities plainly enough, my lord,” cried Sir John, goaded now into open fury. “Where is she?”
The Viscount picked up a pen and began cutting it; he eyed the inflamed countenance of his son with a cold amusement.
“I observed her in here a little while ago,” he answered quietly. “She was engaged in sealing a letter—to Mr. Wharton.”
“Tom Wharton!” cried Sir John.